


Vulnerable

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Is Not Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: The enormity of TFP hits Sherlock. John is kind and gentle.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachelonmars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelonmars/gifts).



> Prompt Comment: "Oh dear lord this chapter broke my heart with Sherlock but rebuilt it right away with John comforting and holding him. This is exactly what I've been looking for lately, John being this tender to him. I need this a thousand times after season 4."
> 
> Inspired by a comment on Outflanked by the Allies about the cathartic effect my work had (squeeee!), particularly when Sherlock is all sad and angsty and John is tender and caring. I tripped, landed on my computer, and this little gem came out. Not at all what I intended to write tonight, but hey, that's okay.

“You told Greg that Mycroft isn’t as strong as he thinks he is. What about you, Sherlock?”

John’s voice broke into Sherlock’s blank mind, gentle but insistent. It was a new experience, staring into space with nothing happening in his head. Sherlock had entered his mind palace, but the front door wouldn’t open (it became sticky in the rain, oh how it had rained since Eurus), and he quite frankly lacked the energy to push hard enough. So he had sat outside, on the steps to his mind palace, and stared. He’d never really filled in the surroundings, and they were ghostlike, swirling like milk in strong tea.

Blinking, Sherlock realised he was, in fact, staring into a mug of milky tea. From the temperature against his hand, he had been doing so for quite a while. Leaning forward on his knees, mug grasped in both hands, he was seated in his chair, at Baker Street. The rest of the flat was a disaster, but their chairs were in place, the headphones on the bison’s skull, and he and John were sitting. All the important things, then. The milk had stopped swirling, he could see, the solutions of tea and milk having reached their equilibrium some time ago.

Reflexively he brought the mug to his lips, sipping at the cooling liquid. It barely registered warmth on his tongue, but he swallowed it anyway. Belatedly, Sherlock realised that John had spoken to him.

“Me?” he said, voice hoarse from disuse and tiredness. He had dozed in the car back from Musgrave, but Eurus’ face had intruded into his dreams, and he’d avoided sleep ever since. The look of concern on John’s face meant it was 3 – no closer to 4 – days since he’d slept. He could feel it too, the sandiness in his eyes, sluggishness of his movements. No more leaping about, just quiet, considered actions for a specific purpose.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock spoke again into the silence John had let wind out. His voice sounded wrong, he thought. It was certainly his, but the tone was submissive. No, that wasn’t right. Accepting. Resigned. _Closer_. Passive. _Closer._ Vulnerable. That was it. Vulnerable. Without his usual defences of sarcasm, lightning intellect and sometimes blatant rudeness, this was what was left. A vulnerable man, frightened to go to sleep. He raised his eyes slowly, seeking John. He was seated opposite Sherlock, in his chair, though it was pulled much closer than usual, so John had to ensure his knees didn’t knock into Sherlock’s. His face was so patient and kind, Sherlock registered absently. He had gone to hell and back with Sherlock, and for several terrifying hours, without Sherlock, trapped down that well and about to die. Yet here he was, the concern and empathy radiating out of him enveloping Sherlock in its gentle warmth. Sherlock sighed, holding his friend’s gaze, allowing the warmth to sooth his aching bones. The tea was lifted with care from his hands, and John’s hands were on his. They were so small, his brain thought, and he registered the calluses against his knuckles and the familiar scars visible now that Sherlock was looking at their joined hands. The warmth was real now, too, bleeding slowly into his fingers from John’s.

“I think you need to be taken care of, Sherlock. Just for a little while.” John spoke carefully, as though to a small child, and Sherlock snorted a little.

“Maybe longer than that, John. I have…I have a sister.” His voice almost broke as he said the words aloud. Throughout the ordeal he had sectioned off his mind, refusing to deal with the fallout of Mycroft’s betrayal until it was over. And now it _was_ over, but it would _never_ be over. Eurus was alive, as was Mycroft, and his parents knew the truth. Their little family, strange though it was, had expanded forever, and his mind was still trying to sort out where to fit her into its matrices. Sherlock sighed. He was so tired.

“I’m so tired, John.” The same voice, hoarse and vulnerable at once, held a pleading note now. John would take care of him. John, fighter and healer, who had seen the value not only in his mind but in all of him, and had fought for it all from the very first night they had met.

And now, it was time for the healer to do his work. John stood, tugging on Sherlock’s hands to pull him to his feet. One of John’s arms went around Sherlock, and Sherlock was glad he was taller than John – it made this so much easier. He allowed John to bear much of his weight, the scene before him swimming as his body struggled to keep up with the change of position. They moved slowly through the detritus of their flat towards Sherlock’s bedroom, which had been largely untouched by the explosion. John’s arm was strong around Sherlock, and when they reached the bedroom, he carefully sat Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock watched as John bent to remove two pairs of shoes and socks, then pulled back the sheets. Someone had changed them, Sherlock realised, the blue bedspread clashing horribly with the grey pillowcases. Must have been John. The smell of the clean sheets wafted up to him, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the scent that never failed to remind him of home. The connections were made in his brain faster than he could control, and Eurus’ face swam before his eyes. A sudden intake of breath, and he was shaking, shaking hard. He felt the bed dip next to him, John’s arms around him, pulling him close. White noise filled his ears, confusing him until he realised John was making the soft “shhhhhh” noise, his heart pounding against Sherlock’s cheek, steady and strong. Sherlock’s body was too tired to maintain the fight-or-flight response for long, and he soon stilled. Sitting up, Sherlock turned to John. His eyes flew to John, and he knew his fear was painted there for John to see. A calming smile crossed John’s face, and he laid one hand on Sherlock’s face, the touch connecting them again, reassuring Sherlock of his continued presence.

“I’ll stay,” he said, answering the unasked question, “and I have some pills if you’d like.” Sherlock shook his head no to the pills, laying himself down, allowing John to fix the blankets over him. The doctor closed the blind then climbed in the other side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Sherlock was lying on his side, facing John. Sherlock sighed, and John scooted down, head still propped against the bedhead. John’s breathing was soothing, Sherlock thought, giving him a blueprint for calm. It had been so long since he had been calm he’d forgotten what it felt like.

“Do you think you’ll sleep?” John asked into the silence.

Sherlock shrugged.

“Promise me you’ll wake me if you don’t, okay?” John asked, and Sherlock frowned his lack of understanding.

“I don’t want you wandering about alone, Sherlock. Your body needs rest, it needs to heal, and so does your mind. That’s why your mind palace is being difficult.” Sherlock hadn’t realised John knew that had happened.

“I’ll be here as long as you need.” John said softly, and Sherlock nodded, a tiny movement designed to acknowledge the statement without making him cry.

“Do you need anything?” John asked, and Sherlock hesitated.

“My mother would read us poetry, sometimes.” He admitted. “It helped me to sleep.” John nodded, dropping one hand to lay on Sherlock’s head, lightly brushing over the curls as he spoke the only poem he knew from start to finish. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, the cadence of John’s voice rocking his soul to a deep, healing sleep.

 _Do not go gentle into that good night,_  
_Old age should burn and rave at close of day;_  
_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._  
  
_Though wise men at their end know dark is right,_  
_Because their words had forked no lightning they_  
_Do not go gentle into that good night._  
  
_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright_  
_Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,_  
_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._  
  
_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,_  
_And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,_  
_Do not go gentle into that good night._  
  
_Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight_  
_Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,_  
_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._  
  
_And you, my father, there on the sad height,_  
_Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._  
_Do not go gentle into that good night._  
_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

**Author's Note:**

> John's poem (which I suspect he learned somewhere along the line in his Army days) is Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas. I like to think Sherlock would like it better than anything too soppy, anyway.


End file.
